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Chapter Eighteen

“These Renegades boys make my life so easy. From romance scandals to postseason injuries, our boy Boh finds himself at the center of attention again as we skate toward training camp. Will he make it? Will he share a locker room with Beckett? Will our beloved Captain keep a lid on all these manly tempers?” Penni’s Puckleberry Tea

Boh

I woke up to a racket in the kitchen.

Novy.

When was the last time I woke up and didn’t think of Novy? Even without the delicious scents from whatever she was cooking permeating my room, my mind moved to thoughts of her. Of the way her hair slipped free of her ponytail to trail against the curve of her cheek. Or the way her lips pursed, all pink and kissable, when she read a food label with the same sort of interest I studied game plays.

I rolled out of the bed, limping naked to the en suite and to the shower. A few minutes later, I’d water-proofed my cast and steam filled the shower. Sakra, it would be a relief to get rid of the stupid thing today.

I clenched my eyes closed as the memory of speaking to Novy last night swept through me. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with her. She meant well. She had that sort of nature, the kind that wanted to soothe and take away the suffering of others.

Was this the new me? Constantly a breath away from losing control? From losing my mind?

Any other day, I would have held it in. Sucked it up and pretended to be unaffected both by the fans and by the hurt in her eyes. But the reins on my temper had been ripped away. My restraint shattered. Had I shouted at her at the restaurant? I remembered calling for her at the exit. Remembered snarling at the fans.

Remembered snarling at Novy.

Remembered I’d have to face her, spend the morning with her, as she carried me to my appointments. Fuck.

Shrugging into a pair of clean sweats from the dresser, I left the sanctum of my bedroom and cautiously approached the kitchen. Novy stood at the island filling two bowls with oatmeal. She smiled to herself as she plopped a handful of blueberries atop both.

At the sight of her, the band around my chest loosened. “Hey.”

“Hi!” She pointed to the bowls. “I just finished filming this amazing oatmeal recipe.” She waved at a camera and light stand at the end of the counter. “And your island is amazing. Such a pretty countertop in the videos.”

I wagged my head. “We agreed no filming.”

“You might have said something like that, it’s true. But I have student loans and I’m stuck with your grumpy butt indefinitely. I can’t give that income up for the foreseeable future, Mr. Zacha. We aren’t all making NHL salaries in this apartment.”

“You make enough doing these cooking videos to pay back your loans?”

“Yep.”

I wanted to ask about her family. Ask if they helped her out with her school, though it sounded like she managed on her own. She’d mentioned the derby women and Scout, but she’d never mentioned family.

“Can’t film at your parents’ place?”

“You have better countertops.”

“Why do I feel like you’re hiding something?”

She leaned up to return the oatmeal canister to one of the top shelves. I swung around the island and pushed the container into place.

“Not hiding,” she said with a grateful smile. “My mother lives on the east side of Richland. She’s got her own thing going on.”

Sadness flashed in her eyes.

“Too busy for her daughter?”

“And my dad’s been out of the picture since I was a kid. I barely remember what he looks like. So yeah, you have better countertops.”

She lined up the pink bowls and flashed me a quick smile. “Let me get a couple of stills and then we can eat it up. Perfect timing.”

I settled on one of the stools, balancing my crutches on the end of the island. She pushed one of the bowls in front of me, passing me a spoon. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

She lifted the other bowl, and spooned up a mouthful. Despite her cheery tone, she didn’t meet my gaze. “I’m good.” She nodded toward my bowl. “Eat it before it gets cold. It’s a new variation on blueberry oatmeal, but I think I nailed it. No added sugar! If you hate it, I’ll make you a smoothie.”

She waited until I took the first bite, then spoke in a soft voice. “I want to say something.”

I froze, my hand hanging mid-air with a spoonful of blueberries and oatmeal. Dread poured over me. A cold feeling that tasted too much like fear chased down my spine. “Yeah?”

“You get annoyed with me on the regular. I think you’re kinda grumpy by nature. It’s cute.”I scowled at her. “Cute?”

She flushed, her eyes not meeting mine. “But last night? That was something else.”

It was. It was disgusting. “I was pissed.”

“You were gonna hit that guy. I swear, you were gonna hit that guy.”

“No,” I said, and I meant the denial one hundred percent. “There was never a moment where I was gonna hit him, but my anger did take over.”

“Surely you’ve dealt with stupid fans before? After a bad game or something?”

“Yeah. They just got to me last night. Got under my skin. You know the deal. I have a short fuse these days and those guys just set me off.”

“Maybe too much all at once? Being in a loud restaurant, in the middle of a bunch of people, then those two antagonizing you like they did…”

She drifted into silence, face still tilted toward her bowl as though it held the secrets of the universe. I pushed the last blueberry around my nearly empty bowl. I wouldn’t mind knowing a few of those secrets myself.

“I just wanted to say that you do a lot better here, around fewer people, less chaos.” She carried her bowl to the sink, set it down with a clink.

“I’ve never liked being in the thick of a crowd. Even before all this.” I motioned toward my head with the spoon. “Since we’re being all chatty this morning, let’s clear the air about Trent, too.”

She tilted her head to the side, question in her eyes. “Trent?”

“Trent Beckett is in a rough spot. He’s good, too good to be playing in the AHL. But our current line-up is solid, as long as we’re all healthy, so he’s kinda stuck there. He’s on a contract with the Renegades and unless management trades him, he’s looking at some frustrating time down there. He wants my job. We all know it. It’s the way professional hockey works. He’s made no secret of the fact that he’s gunning for my job.”

She nodded. “Sounds brutal, but okay, I guess, if you are all on the same page and that’s how things work in hockey-ville.”

“He had a few more opportunities last season between me being out a couple games mid-season and then the playoffs.” I scrubbed my hand through my hair. “He hangs out at the Puck’n Boards like the rest of us do. His girl turns up even more often than he does. I’d had a bad game. He’d been talking his shit for weeks. One thing led to another and when his girl put moves on me, I didn’t turn her down.”

I pressed my thumb down on the edge of the butter knife. “It was stupid. Regretted it instantly. One of those unspoken rules in the locker room, you don’t fuck around with your teammate’s girl. No sisters, no girlfriends, no wives.

“So then, I had Beckett ready to rip out my throat, but even the other guys were none too pleased. Just not done, not in a healthy locker room. I had to get out of there. Hammer offered me a ride, but that went to shit and here we are. Like I said last night, those guys weren’t wrong. They weren’t making anything up. I fucked my team last season.”

She nodded at her bowl, pushing a fat, little blueberry around the bottom of her bowl. Suddenly, it felt imperative that she understand I didn’t mess around with my teammate’s partners. That I’d made a stupid, one-time mistake. I’d wrecked our playoff run, but it wasn’t who I was. And I’d do anything to take it back. I never should have kissed the woman and definitely shouldn’t have gotten in the car with Hammer. We’d both been drinking. It was a stupid move, a dangerous move.

But even with the alcohol rounding off the edges of my emotions, I’d recognized the kiss with Aubrey for the nuclear-level mistake it was instantly. Probably why I’d climbed into Hammer’s car. Escape.

Like a fucking coward.

Novy stood, picking up our bowls and carrying them over to the sink. She wore a strappy pink shirt over white yoga pants that hugged her round curves and had my dick twitching beneath my sweats. Her hair hung loose this morning, waves of honey brown down her back. Her pale golden skin glowed, mesmerizing me with every shift and flex she made.

I was so lost in my fascination that she startled me when she turned to face me again. I blinked, focused on her pretty blue eyes. Without make-up, she had tiny freckles peppering her nose, the crest of her cheeks. I wanted to count each one. I wanted to pick her up and splay her out on my bed again and explore every inch of her gorgeous body until I’d found every single freckle. And then I wanted to do it all over again.

Její pihy vypadaly dost sladké na ochutnání. Her freckles looked sweet enough to taste. My dick went from a happy twitch to a full erection.

“Anyway,” she said, jarring me out of my untimely preoccupation, “I’m going to work on some editing. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

We arrived at Brightside with time to spare. Novy drove my car and insisted, despite knowing the way, on programming the GPS to get us there. She grinned as she changed the setting to pick out a celebrity voice.

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever gets us there fastest.”

“Terry Crews is definitely the fastest.”

Entering the lobby, we were met by the grim gate guardian. She smiled her most professional smile. As if she hadn’t spent a solid two weeks kicking my ass around this clinic. I waited for the anger that’d been my constant companion during my time here to kick in. Instead, my gaze gravitated to the side of the lobby where I’d crashed down on Novy. Thought about the sight of spinach and tomatoes and some sort of sauce dripping from her hair to dapple her chest and stomach.

“We’re here for an appointment for Bohdan Zacha. Thank you.”

I turned to see Novy speaking to the gate guardian. The older woman arched a penciled-on brow at me. “Welcome back, Mr. Zacha.”

I tilted my head and gave her a smirk. “Just visiting, thanks.”

“Dr. Altman is in his office waiting for you.”

I led the way through the catacomb of hallways to reach the concussion specialist. His office connected to a small room not unlike a fitness mini gym, with an assortment of work-out machines intermingled with medical equipment.

I motioned Novy to one of the chairs in front of Dr. Altman’s desk before sinking into the other.

Dr. Altman smiled at Novy. “I finally get to meet the woman who took on the task of reining you in.”

My roommate rolled her eyes with a hint of laughter. “As if.”

At the sight of her lips twitching, I couldn’t stop my own smile. The sound of Novy’s laughter hit me, loosened something deep inside that always seemed to have me in a stranglehold.

“Tell me, Boh, how are the headaches?”

I straightened in the chair, met the doctor’s eyes. “No headaches.”

“And how about light sensitivity? Dizziness?”

“None.”

“No lightheadedness, either, I’m guessing. Any other sensory issues?”

“Not any longer.”

Novy’s chair creaked as she shifted position. My fingers tightened around the rubber handle of my crutch.

“That is excellent news. And I hear your cast comes off this afternoon? That will help with balance, though it might be a little uneven at first. Expect a little setback as your body readjusts.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Altman pulled a little black scope from his breast pocket and came around the desk. He sat on the edge and leaned forward to shine it in my eyes. I sent a quick prayer to my maker to please let my eyes do whatever they were supposed to do.

“Good pupil reaction. Much improved since the last time we checked. How about mood swings? Any depression or anger issues?”

I swallowed hard, tipped my head back to meet his eyes. “I’m feeling great, Doc.”

“I’m very pleased, Boh. You are progressing remarkably well. Let’s have you do a round through the obstacle course to compare your stats. But I have a feeling you’re going to fly through the exercises.”

Over the next thirty minutes, Dr. Altman put me through what he called his obstacle course, but which were actually little exercises meant to trigger concussion symptoms. Allowing for the crutch use and not considering speed, I knew I’d done better than the last time. By a landslide.

Finally, he pulled up my old results and after several minutes of study, looked up at me with a smile. “I’m not quite ready to clear you, but I am extremely pleased. Your physical responses and balance are showing tremendous improvement, which is a positive sign. However, before I can consider clearing you, it’s important to evaluate your cognitive function.”

I should have had Novy wait in the lobby. I cleared my throat, the leg without the cast began bouncing. Hloupá.

“Don’t get nervous, Boh. I’m optimistic. I really am. But you hockey players make more decisions in a twenty minute period than the average person does all day. Quick, almost instinctive decisions and calculations on skates on ice. The game is faster now than ever, which means these decisions happen faster than ever. The team needs a player who can keep up. We’ll evaluate your cognitive function in more detail and ensure you’re making the progress you should.”

The doctor sent me on my way, Novy trailing silently in my wake. I shouldn’t have let her come into the appointment with me. Should have had her wait in the lobby. Not only had she heard my doctor question my cognitive ability, in other words, call me a stupid, failed hockey player, she knew another key detail.

She knew I lied.